


Little Girl Lost

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment seems to sharpen into sudden clarity. She has a spray of freckles on her nose, a brightly coloured rainbow on her thin T-shirt. He watches a bee buzz airily near her ear, sees her tiny fist clutch convulsively at the rock in her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Girl Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Gapfiller for Episode 201. Written for LJ's tv_universe community for the missing scenes challenge.
> 
> * * *

Otis blinks against the sunlight, lifts a hand to shade his eyes. The small figure is dappled by the shade on the far bank, moving slowly through the shallow water. She looks over her shoulder at the thick copse of trees at her back, every line of her body tense, quivering. He watches her tuck a raggedy doll more firmly under her arm, dart a quick glance up at the sun before she continues on. 

She's the first healthy human being he's seen outside of his family since God saw fit to bring about Armageddon to the world. 

Otis crosses himself quickly, sticks his pole upright into the soft ground before leaving the shelter of the trees and stepping forward onto the river bank. 

"Little girl?" he calls softly.

Her head whips up, eyes wide and shocked. The moment seems to sharpen into sudden clarity. She has a spray of freckles on her nose, a brightly coloured rainbow on her thin T-shirt. He watches a bee buzz airily near her ear, sees her tiny fist clutch convulsively at the rock in her hand. Then she's smiling at him, the relief and hope lighting up her whole face, transforming her from a dirt-smudged child into something beautiful. In that instant Otis can see what she'll look like as a young woman, soft and sweet, gentle. The kind of woman who would never break a young man's heart, who would find joy even in this hardscrabble life.

He hears the rustle of the leaves a moment before the creature lunges from the overgrowth behind her. 

She must see the sudden fear in his eyes because she starts to turn away, even as he's taking the first loping shuffling step to reach her. But the creature is too fast, slaps a hand on her shoulder and spins her around and she screams and Otis can never hope to reach her in time, not with all the extra weight he's put on from Patricia's biscuits and cream cakes and—

The blood stains the water around her as he sloshes forward. Slashing out with the butt of the rifle is instinctual but he still winces at the crunch of the stock breaking bone, at the viscous black blood that spews from the creature's skull. The creature – a man, he reminds himself, just different, just _sick_ – flops back amongst the weeds and he turns back to the little girl just as she starts to fall, her body juddering in shock. He catches her before she can tumble into the water, drops to his knees in the shallow stream and cradles her in his arms and watches the raggedy doll drop from her limp fingers and drift away with the gentle current. 

"My doll," she says weakly.

She lifts one stick-thin arm, shifts as though to move after it. Otis looks up from the ragged gash in her neck, the bright red blood coursing from the wound and soaking into her T-shirt, the thick coppery smell of her life pumping so quickly out of her tiny body. He blinks back tears, clears his throat so she won't be able to hear the sorrow in his voice. "I'll fetch it for you later, sweetheart."

But she must sense it anyway, because she struggles in his arms to look up at him. He tries not to focus on how the movement forces a fresh gout of blood from the wound, splashing hotly against the arm around her shoulders. Instead he concentrates on her big blue eyes, her long pale lashes. 

"I don't want to die," she says.

"Die?" He makes a face. "Who said anything about dying? Just a little bite, is all. I can fix that up right quick."

"You can?"

The sudden hope in her voice makes his heart ache. He lifts a hand to her pale cheek, cups it softly. "Course I can. I have a big ol' farmhouse not too far from here. And my friend Hershel is a doctor. He'll wash that cut out, maybe give you a couple of stitches. I know you'll be a brave girl for that. And then we'll get some food into you. How's that sound?"

"Chicken noodle soup," the girl says. "That's what my mom always makes me when I'm sick."

"Chicken noodle soup it is," Otis agrees. "We'll just rest here for a few minutes, okay? Let this fat old man get his breath back."

The child nods, leans her head back against his shoulder and closes her eyes. 

Otis shifts against the rocky bottom of the river, holds the little girl as close as he can. The water soaks into his old overalls and seeps into his boots, flows around them on its inexorable path. He can hear the rustle of a coon or a possum in the tall grass of the far bank, a songbird in the trees behind him. The sun shines down, reflecting on the water and warming his skin. It's a beautiful day, a day when a little girl like this one should be running through the fields, laughing and playing. Not growing weaker and colder with every passing moment, her forehead clammy against his big hand, her breathing shallow under that hot sun. 

He wishes he could remember the songs his mama used to sing to him when he was a baby, but for some reason the only tune that's coming to his mind is The Old Rugged Cross. So he sings that, and does his best not to let his voice crack, and rocks the girl gently in his arms until the final verse is done and there is just the murmur of the cold water flowing over the rocks and the breeze sighing through the trees and the birds calling to one another in the high branches. 

He holds her until she passes. Smoothes a rough hand through her tangled hair, murmurs pointless words.

Then he lays her on a bed of leaves, so that her cold, pale face is upturned to the sun. And goes to get his pole.


End file.
